Shall I wish or perish, Keats,
In your remembrances?
I saw closed doors with black ribbons of your choice
And heard laces humming late hymns.
The cold winter races up to the moon forever.
Yet in all times do I find you, warm as wine and fever;
Only in death does ice on ice grow like a tree.

Draw on me; divine me,
I wait at the threshold, eager to be called in.
Yet. Yet, you speak only in riddles.
Malachite and mirrors do adorn your windows,
Why don’t you let me through too?

I saw those fences in mourning;
Alabaster-clad winds and alcoholic fire –
Your friends in desire.
Drown me in a cup of hot chocolate,
Smother me with poetry.
Is that too much to ask for?